The Violin
by thinking hurts my brain
Summary: Excerpt: Sherlock's deep voice that John had missed oh, so much seemed to resonate through his entire being. John fell to his knees. "Sherlock," he whispered.


**So, it's been a while since I've written anything. Dunno if any of you followers like Sherlock, or if you just found this, but here's my small contribution to the (insane) Sherlock Fandom. I don't own anything. R&R!**

**also, I put a new pole up on my blog if you have some free time, go vote!**

* * *

Sherlock watched John walk away from his gravestone, his arms swinging at his sides.

Sherlock had caught pieces of what John had been saying. But it was the last thing the doctor had said that got to Sherlock.

_"Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." _The words replayed over and over in Sherlock's head. Something stirred inside the detective. What did stupid people call it? Guilt? Yes, that was it. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed a fraction of a degree. He hadn't felt guilty before.

Ah, but he had.

Irene Adler.

When he had unlocked her phone, her life's work, he felt... he cringed, just thinking about it, _guilty._ He had rejected her, with flying colors none the less. But there had still been that nagging feeling. _Guilt._

_But I made up for it,_ He thought. _I saved her life._

But that didn't change what was happening now.

The Guilt settled in Sherlock's stomach, twisting it almost painfully. He scowled and walked away from the tree that had been sheltering him. He pushed all thoughts from his mind, (quite the achievement) and walked down the lawn, weaving in and out and around gravestones and statues.

There were things to be done.

* * *

_Two year later..._

* * *

The guilt had never really gone away. It was all Sherlock could do to distract himself from it, which became increasingly difficult.

It's just that things were so _boring._

Sherlock had nothing to do but skulk with his thoughts, eeking out a living by playing violin on street corners. He despised it of course. He despised almost everything. Things were like they were before he had ever met John Watson. Little money, no friends, only his thoughts to drive off the cold, the hate, and the loneliness. He never talked. Everyone just thought he was mute or he had his tongue cut out or something. But the thing was that he just preffered _not to talk._

There was only two times a day that he was moderately close to happy.

One, when he got free food from the small coffee shop he played by. The owner had said that he attracted attention to the place, (although it had been the new waitress) and he was eternally grateful. Sherlock didn't complain, for once.

The second time he was close to happy was when John walked by on his way to work.

Every day, 7:45 AM, he walked briskly down the sidewalk, arms swinging wildly at his sides. He stopped for coffee (black, no sugar) and walked out again, passing so close to Sherlock that if he had reached out, he would have been able to touch him.

John's eyes always skimmed over Sherlock. As far as the doctor knew, Sherlock was just another homeless person, trying to survive London.

Sherlock always stopped playing violin when John walked by, for fear of being recognized.

But lately, Sherlock had become... reckless. He was bored. So one day, he plucked a tune out with his fingers, immersed in his thoughts.

John approached the coffee shop, then stopped short. He cocked his head, listening. Then, he slowly turned toward the former detective. One step closer. Two.

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock froze, realizing his mistake. He swallowed thickly and turned toward John, hoping his beard and the grime would hide his cheekbones and his long hair would cover his silvery blue eyes. His heart beat so fast in his chest, that he was sure John would be able to hear it. He scowled at John.

John searched Sherlocks face. "Could... could you play that again?" Sherlock nodded gruffly, trying his best to act like a mute homeless man. Sherlock obligingly plucked out the tune again.

It may have been a cloud passing over the sun, or some other trick of the light, but Sherlock could almost physically see John age before his eyes. The doctor's face darkened, and the bags under his eyes seemed to sag a fraction of a centimeter more. John frowned, and his eyebrows creased together.

John nodded a little, then gave one sharp nod, tossed Sherlock a bill.

"Have one on me, Mate."

* * *

_One year later..._

* * *

Things went on in the same way. John stopped by every day to ask Sherlock to play that tune, and Sherlock obliged. He never spoke, and John never asked him any direct questions.

The guilt had long-since faded, replaced with something else Sherlock couldn't identify for the longest time.

Then, one day, it struck him like lightning.

He felt _longing._

He longed to have his old life, he longed to live in that flat that John had never moved out of, and he longed for _John._

So Sherlock decided.

The following week after the epiphany, Sherlock decided to pay an old friend a visit. He stood up from the corner, packed his violin away in the case. Then, he set off.

It wasn't a very long walk to Molly's flat. She was the only one he could visit- the only person who knew he was alive. She had helped him stage his suicide.

Sherlock arrived, and rang the buzzer. About a minute later, Molly opened the door.

She looked at him with wide eyes, similar to a deer caught in headlights. Sherlock looked her once over. She was having a stay at home night, perhaps watching a movie. Good then, she was relatively free.

"Molly," Sherlock said. Shock flashed over the girl's face, and she grabbed an umbrella off the stand near the door.

"I'm- I'm warning you. Stay away! Shoo!" she waved the umbrella weakly at Sherlock, gently prodding him with it. He rolled his eyes.

"Molly," he said again. "Honestly, you look ridiculous doing that." Silence.

"Sherlock?" she asked hesitantly. His mouth twitched.

"Correct."

"Well... I never thought I'd s-see you like this." Sherlock's mouth twitched again.

"Neither did I. Are you busy at the moment?"

"No, I've got the day off, finally."

"I see. Would you still happen to have my trenchcoat?"

* * *

_Three hours later..._

* * *

"How do I look?" Sherlock asked, examining his shaved jaw and cut hair in the mirror. Molly gave him a small smile.

"Like... Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock's mouth twitched, and he turned away from the mirror toward Molly.

"Hm." He took one last look in the mirror, at the man that wasn't quite Sherlock Holmes, but was still there, buried. He was tall, and very thin. He had silvery blue eyes, and dark, curly hair, slightly rumpled from where he had slept on the couch in Molly's flat. His thin face made his impressive cheekbones stand out even more, and the now-permanent purple bruises under his eyes stood out against his pale skin.

He wore a dark purple shirt Molly had kept for him, and black trousers. Over that, he wore a black jacket and a long trenchcoat.

Sherlock made for the door.

"Sherlock," Molly said. He rested his hand on the doorhandle, and turned back to her. "Didn't you want this?" she asked, holding out a blue scarf. Sherlock nodded, and took a long stride toward her. He gently took the scarf, and tied it around his neck- the first time in years.

"Thank you, Molly." He took one last look at her, nodded, and walked out the door, violin case in hand.

"Good luck," she whispered as she watched him walk away.

He was going to need it.

* * *

Sherlock walked the familiar sidewalks toward Baker Street. He kept his head bent, and walked quickly. He didn't want to be recognized.

Soon, he was standing before his old flat. The address still hung on the black door. _221B._

Sherlock put his head against the door. He didn't hear anything inside, Mrs. Hudson must have been out. He took his set of keys out of his pocket (Molly had held on to those for him too), and unlocked the door.

He stepped inside and shut the door, locking it behind him. He looked around the small entryway, and breathed deeply. It smelled of tea.

Sherlock walked up the stairs to his old flat and opened the door. The place looked exactly as he had left it, three years ago. There were papers strewn about, boxes and pillows and that leather couch. Even the skull on the fireplace.

John hadn't even moved the music stand.

Sherlock swallowed thickly and closed the door behind him. He walked over to the skull on the mantel and brushed off some of the dust. He stared intently at it, taking it in.

He looked around the rest of the flat, noticing every single detail about it. Many of Sherlock's things hadn't been touched much, maybe just rearranged. John hadn't gotten rid of anything. This puzzled Sherlock.

He walked to the window and peered outside. It was about one or two in the afternoon. John won't be home for another three hours, and Sherlock has nothing to do. So, he carefully takes his violin out of his case, and the bow, and begins to play.

He writes the music in his head, documenting it for later. Every note. He becomes lost in it, drifting from measure to measure, note to note. Losing all sense of time, he forgets himself and his life. He hasn't played like this in years. When he was posing as a homeless man, he couldn't show his full potential for fear of being recognized, but now that he was revealing himself to John, he could finally relax, in a sense.

Sherlock sighed and poured his heart into the music.

* * *

_Some three hours later..._

* * *

John Watson left the hospital at exactly 5:00PM. He walked home, which took him about fifteen minutes, then either did paperwork, watched telly, or went on a date with another woman, all of which he had absolutely no interest in, sexual or otherwise.

Today, it was the same. He had nothing planned tonight. He left the hospital and began the tread back home. There was only one upside to his day, and that was walking past that odd homeless man outside that nameless coffee shop.

But today, the man wasn't there.

John stopped outside the shop and stared at where the man would usually sit, as if willing him to appear. When he didn't, a deep crease appeared between John's eyebrows. He walked inside the shop.

"Can I help you, Sir?" asked the young waitress behind the counter.

"Erm, yeah. D'you know where that homeless man went? The one that always sits out on the curb?" He pointed vaguely out the window, and she looked.

"Nah, I just saw him get up and leave with his violin case this morning. Dunno where to. He looked pretty determined, though." John pursed his lips and nodded.

"Well... thanks." She nodded an acknowledgement, and John kindly stepped out of line and exited the shop.

He took one last look at the curb, then continued the walk home.

When John got to his flat, he unlocked the door with fumbling fingers and slipped inside. Something was off, he could feel it. John's heart beat a little faster as he slowly walked up the stairs.

Then, he heard it.

Music. A violin, by the sound of it.

John's eyes widened, and his brow creased in confusion. He slowly opened the door to the flat, and he stopped breathing.

There was Sherlock Holmes, all tall and thin and cheekbones and violin. He had his back to John, looking out the window, and was playing a bittersweet melody that seemed to make him want to cry. The music kept coming, falling off Sherlock and rolling across the floor and climbing up John's body until it reached his ears.

Tears pooled John's eyes, and he inhaled sharply. Sherlock finished the piece of music with a flourish.

"Hello, John."

Sherlock's deep voice that John had missed oh, so much seemed to resonate through his entire being. John fell to his knees.

"Sherlock," he whispered.

* * *

**Sorry, guys. I doubt I'll be continuing this, for several reasons. I don't want it to be like all the other reunion fics where it's the same thing over and over. I really enjoyed writing this though, please review, and if you have time check the pole on my profile page! Thanks for your time!**


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